


Sooner or later the fire dies down | Philza & Wilbur Soot

by AlexandraMariaAnna



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Sleepy Boys Inc, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bleeding, Blood, CPR, Character Death, Final Goodbyes, Hurt with no Comfort, Realistic wounds, Stabbing, Vomiting, Whump, can writing be considered gore?, good night chat, i am very sad and also very hungry, i like writing gore, i made two people cry with thi, is this gore?, phil dont abandon your kids challenge failed, phil has a breakdown TM, realisitic description of death, techbur twins will become real in ten seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29632233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandraMariaAnna/pseuds/AlexandraMariaAnna
Summary: It takes a while for a person to bleed out to death, and it's just enough time for Phil to realize what he has done.The sun sets over the burning remnants of what once was L'Manburg.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	Sooner or later the fire dies down | Philza & Wilbur Soot

The air reeked of destruction as Wilbur Soot tore his eyes away from the carnage below, familiar faces scrambling around and fighting for their lives, arrows and swords pointed at ungodly three-headed creatures that circled what once used to be t he main square of  L’Manburg . His breathing was uneven, ragged; at that moment he felt like he was judgment itself, alpha and omega of the country he created with his own frostbitten hands, one that he destroyed. 

It was over, he thought as he watched yet another person tumble down the ruins and fall unconscious, their weapon clattering out their hands. The book was closed, years of work turned into dust; no one would see the happy end for the black, red, and white banner the corner of which he used to kiss with adoration.    
“My L’manburg, Phil,” he uttered through clenched teeth, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “My unfinished symphony,” he added, and the other man in the room felt his heart drop into his stomach.

That wasn’t Wilbur.    
_That wasn’t Will._

Thus, when the human in front of him pressed a sword into his hand, the handle well balanced, almost as if it was crafted to fit his grasp, it felt natural. It felt natural for the angel of death to be holding a weapon of destruction and point it at the monster who looked like his son. 

“Kill me, Phil.”

And he plunged the sword into the monster’s chest, the sharp edges rending flesh and slipping between bone; it was just like slaying a dragon – the warm blood felt the same, dripping against his skin, it had the same thick scent of iron and the same deep red color. The monster coughed, a labored wheeze leaving its throat, and its hands wrapped themselves around the blade, pressing it deeper into itself until the hilt of the weapon touched its body. Only then did  Philza pull it out, a disgusting, wet sound that came with it almost as loud as the chaos on the ground. The dragon was slain, and the world was saved, Phil thought as he shook the blood off the sword as if he was done with a hunt.

The monster collapsed to the ground with a smile, its body contorting into a fetal position, unimaginable pain racking its body.

“Thank you, father.” The monster spoke, and suddenly the monster wasn’t a beast but his son whom he has held in his arms when he was born, taught how to walk, how to speak, how to fight, and how to play the guitar.

The sword clattered to the ground. 

Wilbur’s body uncurled, and he laid on his back, blood slowly pooling around him. The thin cream sweater, patched and sewn with materials and threads of different colors was already sticky, and it clung to the harshly breathing body it covered. The man swallowed, but his mouth was dry, and his heart was hammering; he was dying, and it was bliss.

“No. No, no, no, no- Oh God, what have I done-” Phil whispered, his words drowned in the chaos as he fell to his knees, his eyes fixed on the bleeding wound in his son’s gut. He just killed his child; his life was seeping through his clothes, crimson in color, and even though Wilbur was still breathing he was already lost. There was only white in his head, he couldn’t form a coherent thought.    
Wilbur’s eyes slowly focused on his father. Phil’s face contorted in grief.   
“Why?” he asked, frustration seeping through his teeth, fingernails digging into his palms, breaking the skin, drawing blood. “Didn’t you leave home to pursue true happiness?”

The boy at his feet breathed, but his breath was raspy. He could see sweat forming on his forehead, agonal blush blooming on his face. He was dying, but there was a gentle smile on his face – he wasn’t looking at Phil, but at something behind him. The man took a quick  glance over his shoulder; there was nothing there. 

Whilst his head was turned, Wilbur retched, and turned his head to the side emptying the contents of his stomach, mixed with thick, red blood. His stomach was pierced, Phil realized as the child on the floor coughed and wheezed. The father fell to his knees, his legs unable to hold his body weight. Wilbur licked his lips.

“I didn’t expect Techno and Tommy to be here. Did you call them? You didn’t have to.” he rasped out, and Phil looked around the room, surprised. There was no one there but him, and he could hear Tommy shout orders on the battlefield. Was Will hallucinating? His eyes were misty, and his face was covered with sweat. He was shaking. 

Phil took a labored breath.

“Yes. We’re a family. There is no way we would leave you alone.” He spoke, and a ghost of a smile flashed on Wilbur’s face. A stray tear escaped his eye; Philza didn’t know if it was because of relief that came from him playing along with the mirage experienced by his son or just caused by his dangerously high body temperature, but he looked away, unable to face the fat droplets that followed the first one.   
“Thank you. I know we were supposed to go to the market today, I’m so tired, I’m so sorry that I cannot go-” Will was rambling, his speech slurring. The things he said didn’t make sense, the boy was losing a feeling of self, time, and space. 

There was something forming in Phil’s chest as his breathing quickened, and with shaking hands he reached towards his son, only to bring them back towards himself. A sob racked his chest and he slapped a hand over his mouth to shut himself up, but his shoulders betrayed his grief. Wilbur kept smiling.

“I need to repair my guitar, Tech, remind me to buy strings when I wake up,” Wilbur muttered, his irises sweeping the room. “Guitar strings. Guitar strings. Strings.”   
“I’ll tell him. I’ll remind you.” Phil breathed out, and finally, his body moved, shuffling closer to Will’s fallen form. His knees scraped against the rough surface of the stone flooring, but he couldn’t feel the pain as he approached his son, the lump in his throat growing bigger and bigger as his own clothes became dyed in crimson that escaped his child’s chest. Wilbur’s eyes didn’t leave his father for a moment as he moved, and he coughed a couple of times, his face contorting with pain at every shift of his muscles.    
“Sunday. Sunday. Sunday we can go.” 

Will’s speech was becoming more and more incoherent, some of the words lost in the gurgling noise that escaped his lungs. Phil’s shaky hand gently touched the long, thin wound on Wilbur’s chest, and the boy didn’t even react as his father’s fingers brushed against the tattered fibers of his shirt. 

“Sunday is Tommy’s birthday. Happy birthday, Tommy.” 

It was these words that made the grief spill over, and Phil saw white, his entire being going into overdrive. He flung himself over Wilbur’s quickly cooling body, and with both hands, firmly, he pressed onto the wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. His tears mixed with the blood on his hands, his clothes, his face, and he only made a further mess as he tried to wipe his eyes to be able to see more clearly.   
“I’m so sorry Will- What have I done, oh my God, what have I done-” he sobbed, his words so messy that if one was not used to his normal voice they would not be able to distinguish between the words that howled for forgiveness; Phil felt sick to his stomach. He was a murderer. He hurt his son, the only person in the world that he himself would die for, but the voices in his head were so loud, and for a moment he couldn’t see him, and- And- And- And- “Fuck! Oh my God, Will please hang in there, I’m begging you-”

A cold pair of hands gently touched Phil’s bloodstained ones and he felt his heart stop as he watched Wilbur untangle his father’s hands and guide them away from the wound. A moment of clarity? Phil took a sharp breath, a harsh sob racking his entire body.   
“Wilby-”   
“Good night, dad,” Wilbur spoke surprisingly clearly, and Phil’s entire being threatened to burst from inside of his chest as Will smiled, his teeth stained with blood. “Good night Tech. Good night Tommy.”

He went silent, light disappearing from his warm, brown eyes.

For a moment, Phil was mute, breathless, every sound that surrounded him inaudible, absorbed by the blood on his hands and the ringing in his ears. For a moment his sense of taste was gone, his sense of touch way too present, his hearing not where it was supposed to be, his vision white. The blood continued to pool, but Wilbur was gone, his face unmoving, his chest empty, his fingers, ones that just brushed against Phil’s feverish skin, immobile. 

And then he screamed, he screamed until his throat went raw and until he ran out of breath, until his tears began choking him and until his head began spinning.

“Will,” he whispered as he struggled to breathe, and, robotically, he placed both of his palms on his son’s chest. He began pressing down, not minding the creaking bones, the sweat that poured down his forehead, and the fire that burned in his muscles. “Wake up. Dad has so many things to tell you.”   
He sped up, matching the tempo of his presses to the beating of his thundering heart. “I’m so sorry, Will, I am so sorry, please don’t do this to me. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry-”   
A bone broke under the pressure and Phil slipped a bit, a distressed yelp mixed with a chest-shattering sob escaping his mouth. He muttered his son’s name over and over again like it was a spell that would make the spark return to his eyes. Still, Wilbur remained cold and silent under his touch, and Phil’s whispers turned to screams, raspy, his voice breaking. Finally, his muscles gave out, and he collapsed on top of his son’s empty shell, warm tears seeping into the bloodstained clothes. 

He smelled like the home he grew up in, lavender, orange, and wood – he smelled like youth, and Phil buried his face in Wilbur’s chest, his lips moving before his brain could process what he was saying.   
“You just couldn’t win,” he muttered, his voice reaching no-one. “I loved you, they loved you, and you just couldn’t win.” 

A distressed shout ripped through the air, and Phil’s eyes reluctantly broke away from Wilbur’s corpse. People were still fighting withers below, the attack seemingly never-ending. A deep sigh escaped Phil’s chest, and he wiped his face the best that he could, ignoring the heavy scent of iron, scent of betrayal and disappointment the blood that burned his skin carried. As if he was touching fragile china, he adjusted Wilbur’s body so it would look more comfortable, like he was sleeping, like he was waiting to be awoken. His thumb brushed against Will’s cheek for a moment, wiping away the saliva and blood that mixed with his tears – or were they Phil’s? With shaky hands he buttoned Wilbur’s jacket, covering the wound. 

His son. His child.  _ His baby. _

He felt a fresh wave of tears sting his eyes, and he shook his head, forcing his body to stand up. His knees were weak and he felt tired, but with bloodied hands he picked up the sword that laid abandoned where he left it, Wilbur’s life already beginning to dry on the blade itself. How long has it been? Has it even been ten minutes? 

It felt like years, and at the same time, it felt like one second. 

He felt nauseous when he looked at the weapon in his hand, and he sheathed it quickly, hiding the stained diamond from the world. Phil looked at his son, the setting sun making his face seem almost filled with color again.   
“I’m sorry,” he whispered for the last time, and without looking back again, he left. He felt his heart would break into pieces if he did.

The sun kissed the earth that held the burning L’Manburg in its gentle embrace. Wilbur Soot embraced the fire, Icarus who got what he wanted. He slept.    
For the first time in a long while, he was at peace.

\---

No one looked when  Technoblade slipped into the ruined button room, his back pressed against the rocks, obscuring his form from many pairs of eyes that searched for him, seeking revenge. His first thought was to run as far away as he could, hurt and betrayed, but he had to do something first, and he felt something scratch at his throat when his eyes locked with Wilbur’s dead body. 

Making sure he was still out of view, he approached it, kneeling by the cold form. With one, gentle move, he pressed his forehead against Wilbur’s in a familiar gesture, one that they used to share when they were kids, unaware of the dangers and cruelty of the world. What has once been a sign of affection, now was a farewell, and a stray tear escaped Techno’s eye, landing on Wilbur’s cheek.

“Good night, Will,” he whispered.

And then he was gone, like leaves on the wind; an empty space in his chest filled with cornflowers and  chrysanthemums . 

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up and chose violence.  
> I don't have anything else to say this time, really. I just wanted to do an emotion study and it got out of hand.  
> Will come back. Please come back.
> 
> Find me @SummoningFailed on Twitter if you want to beat me up behind a Tesco.


End file.
